AfterLife Series
by Talutha
Summary: *COMPLETE* Finally. Boromir centric fic where our antihero is given a happy ending of sorts before Gandalf blows in and forces him to make a choice...
1. Samhain Between Worlds

After/Life Series 

**Canon:** Book and movieverse A/U.

**Rating:** PG

**Disclaimer:** I wish that Boromir was mine… all mine, I tell you! But Tolkien got there first. Tamar, Chulainn, Kored, and all the rest are my own shadows. Gandalf, I suspect, is entirely his own.

**Description: **Boromir - centric fiction, giving the unfortunate anti – hero a happy ending of sorts. After death he is thrown into a different existence and has the chance to experience joy and contentment before he must make a choice that will change both worlds…

Chapter 1: Samhain/ Between Worlds 

W_hen Death finally claimed him, he ran towards it, sobbing in relief and collapsed into it, arms extended, head down, tears of gratitude on his face. But Death bent to him, and took his chin in one cool hand, wiped the tears from his bloodied cheek and smiled at him with kindly eyes. **Thankyou**, Boromir thought. **I have waited for you.** Death shook its head slowly, and pointed – not back the way he had come, nor the way he had thought to go,  but on, another way. Boromir frowned in confusion. **Where?** Death took his hand, and kissed it with chill lips, then placed one bony digit on his brow. The impact shook him to the core, and he blacked out, as if he had died again…_

-Today-

Tamar struggled with the arm load of wood she had picked for herself. The logs she had split had been old wood, left behind the cottage by previous tree lopping, home to mice and voles, and many many spiders. She had selected only enough for a load, leaving enough to shelter the animals who lived there. Then the swinging of the splitter, and the crack thud of splitting wood sounded crisply in the morning. She shifted the wood as she reached the cottage, depositing it noisily into the large cane basket by the back door. The door was painted green, and was one of those half doors that Tamar had always read about but had never actually seen until she bought the cottage.

The cottage. She stood back for a moment, and looked around her, a small smile on her face. The cottage was old, stone, full of memory and still half asleep. The back of the cottage was divided in half by the green door. To the right was a large window which let the morning sun into the old kitchen. To the left, a small window which allowed the same sun to illuminate her small desk. Then blank wall until the corner, behind which was the living room; two large chairs, a fireplace and several book cases. At the end of the house, next to the kitchen window, the remains of an old drystone wall extended about twelve feet away from the house before crumbling to a disorderly end before it reached the chicken coop. A cobbled path met the green door, and led her feet past the overgrown garden to the outbuildings, a few small tumble down sheds that she had not investigated yet, and another stone building which had been a barn, and retained a sweet fagrance of hay and horses still. There was an addition to the side, by the broken down wall, an extension to the kitchen side of the house put up by the previous owner, an indoor bathroom and laundry. At the front of the house were two goodsized bedrooms, one with Tamar's old timber framed bed, and the other still the storage room, stacked and packed with _stuff_  for which Tamar readily admitted she may never find a place. The top of the green door was open, and Tamar could smell the fresh bread she had left on top of the stove. Her eyes wandered to the few old remaining apple trees on the other side of the old wall, several of which were still fruiting, close as it was to winter. Apples and fresh bread and rosehip tea for breakfast. She sniffed the crisp sunrise air, inhaling green scents, and autumn scents, and she closed her eyes with pure delight. An inquiring snuffling interrupted her reverie, and a large grey head appeared over the bottom half of the green door. Chulainn watched her with what she interpreted as patient amusement, his large dark eyes fixed on her as he reminded her that he had not yet been fed. The Irish Wolfhound had been given to her as a gangly gift by a local farmer four months ago when she had first arrived, and had almost doubled in size by then. He was not yet finished growing, and was looking to be the size of a small pony when he finally stopped. Tamar grinned at him.

"Fine then, hungry boy, let's see what we can do for you, eh?" she said. His ears pricked up, and he stood with his two massive front paws on the door frame, his tongue lolling from his head comically. She shook her head and went towards the door. Chulainn's ears went up further, and he looked past her, a soft growl starting in his throat. Tamar felt her hair begin to prickle, and her back muscles to twitch. She turned around quickly – to see nothing out of the ordinary. She turned back to Chulainn who regarded her calmly, as if nothing had happened. She shrugged it off, and went inside to feed her dog, and herself, in that order.

He was moving slowly, as if underwater, caught in a current against which he was made to struggle. He did not know where he was going, or why. Or where he had been. There was only the struggle, the current, the snatches of a laughing voice, and a dapple of morning sunlight. Then nothingness once more, and a sense of waiting…

They had been coming since the afternoon shadows began to grow long, both real and unreal, sometimes unintelligible from the other. Real generally came dressed as children dressed as ghosts and vampires, and popstars, demanding candy and treats, which she handed over with an indulgent smile. The Unreal were more insidious, edging in on her vision and her mindspace with polite nudges, letting her know they were there. She smiled at these too, and bid them good journeying as they moved on. Later, she stood before her altar in the copse of slim ash trees behind her house, and let the cold night air move over her skin. Samhain, Halloween, the night when the veil between the worlds was at its thinnest, and the dead came to tea. She extinguished the final candle in its glass holder, and sighed. She felt a little drained, but exhilarated. Samhain, and a full moon. She needed a drink. Before entering her back door, she turned, her hands extended before her.

"I bid thee welcome, wandering spirits, on this night. Stop awhile with me if thee has need, and you shall be welcome until sunrise, when I bid you good journey back to your own world." She stopped and bit her lip, then added, "As long as you don't disrupt me too much. I have a lot of work to get done tonight." The she turned and entered through her green door, grey/black in the moonlight, as the clouds passed over the stars, and a fierce wind answered her in the treetops. She sat up a while, the screen of her laptop computer casting blue and white reflections on her face while she typed, using the inspiration of the night to fine tune a few of the scenes of the novel she was crafting, before retiring to her large white bed, and turning over once before falling asleep, Chulainn snoring in the kitchen.

It was the light which he found at last, the light he felt he was to search for. It was a house, he saw, a small house, and a longing overtook him. A longing for comfort, and a place to belong, and an end to the struggle in the current. He saw the house, and yearned for it. A small spot on his brow pulsed cold, and for a moment, he remembered who he was, and screamed in horror and dismay, before landing, silenced, on the cold, hard ground, with noone near him but the stars in the sky, and the chilly wind that blew almost right through him. His skin was silver in the moonlight, silver the spot on his brow. He looked at his hand, and saw and felt flesh once more. He wept. He did not know why.

It was the scream that woke her, full of horror, and sadness, near agony that wrenched her gut to hear it. She awoke fully, and sat up in bed, listening. Nothing but the wind in the trees and the night sounds of this place. Her skin was prickling, and she shivered hard. Her stomach was tight and nervous, and she felt a momentary fear, unexplained. She shook her head, and exhaled, forcing herself to calm down. She heard Chulainn stirring in the kitchen, his nails clicking on the tiles as he paced. She got up, glancing at the green glowing numbers on her alarm clock. Four AM. She swore quietly, and slipped on an old soft terry towelling robe over her over sized t – shirt and tracksuit pants, and padded into the kitchen. Chulainn was up on his hind legs, paws on the draining board of the sink, looking intently out of the window. He looked over his shaggy shoulder at her, and she came to stand beside him, one hand on his head.

"What's up boy, huh? Do we have a guest tonight? Come on, let's go see."

She slipped a hand under his collar and he stood on four feet behind her as she opened the back door, and stepped outside.

The sky was still dark, and the air still moist. She smelled compost and stone. Chulainn snuffed, then took a step forward, and pricked his ears, growling softly. Tamar frowned, and cocked her head to one side, listening intently. At first, she did not hear it, so soft it was, carried only by the breeze. But then she could make it out. Weeping. Despairing and lonely and abject, low and not too far away. She inhaled sharply, surprised, and a little worried. Who would be weeping so tonight? It sounded Real to her, felt Real. She glanced down at Chulainn, who let out a small whine, and moved restlessly. 

"Come on dog, tonight you can pretend to be a St Bernard. Won't that be exciting?"

Anticipating that she would not sleep again tonight whatever happened, she laid a fire in the grate before grabbing a red plastic flashlight from a kitchen drawer, and slipping her feet into a pair of worn trainers. Closing the green door behind her, she bent to Chulainn, and rubbed his nose.

"Okay, Chulainn, find him. Go, go on!" She gestured with her hand, and started to walk away from the house. Chulainn snuffed at her, and then bounded ahead, stopping to listen and glance back at her before moving on on his great long legs. It occurred to her that she could be finding just about anyone out there, and that she may be in some danger. A transitory thought warned her to wait another few hours until dawn before calling some help to search for the weeper. She dismissed it brusquely. The night was only going to get colder, and she had Chulainn with her. She was not the sort of person who, by nature, was afraid of the external. What would happen, would happen. There were other fears, deeper, more inhibiting fears, that she had to worry about. Murderers wandering the moors and weeping were not high on that list. The grass made a quiet "sssh" as she strode after Chulainn's grey shape as he moved, and stopped, and moved and stopped. The weeping was growing imperceptibly louder as she moved, and she could now make out individual sounds, cries and sighs carried on the night air. Then it grew fainter, as if the lamenting individual was calming. Chulainn paused, then grunted, and looked back at Tamar, who scurried forward to meet him. She looked to where the dog was gazing, and exhaled in surprise, one hand reaching for his collar.

An outcropping, large and black in the darkness, some scrubby gorse bushes, and huddled against the rockface, a man, naked and silvery in the moonlight. He was still, but breathing. Chulainn surged forward, his collar slipping from Tamar's grasp. He crossed the short distance to the man, and stopped short, leaning forward to sniff at him. The man twitched, and turned, crying out in surprise and fear. Tamar saw his torso was bloodied, and his hair long and lank, and stiff with more blood. She made a shocked noise and he looked up at her. His face was dim in the night, but eyes were wild and scared, and she softened her gaze, and spoke quietly and reasuringly.

"It's alright, he won't hurt you. He helped me find you. I've come to help you. You're bleeding. Are you in pain?"

The man made no reply, instead shrinking back from Chulainn's curious nose. The dog, far from being perturbed at the strange man's sudden appearance, was almost friendly, tail wagging. Tamar looked concerned, and spoke again.

"Can you tell me your name? My name is Tamar. The dog is called Chulainn. Do you know where you are?"

The man's mouth worked, and he made a rasping noise before coughing, and sighing, and trying again.

"Water…"

Tamar took a step toward him. "Of course. Can you come with me to my house? I have water there… You will be safe there." She held out her hand, and the man shrank away. She took another step toward him, then another, until she was kneeling beside him. She did not move to touch him, but instead studied him closely. His eyes were pale, and wide with shock. His hair was to his shoulders, and dark in the moonlight. He had a short beard on a coarse but well shaped face, high cheekbones and a strong chin. His lips were drawn back in a rictus of fear and what she suspected was pain. She glanced down at his wounds, of which there were several, although they seemed to have stopped bleeding. She looked up at him again.

"Do you know your name?" she asked softly. He looked away for a moment, then began to cry softly. She took his hand, and squeezed it, before shrugging out of her robe and easing it around his broad shoulders. It barely fit him, but he took the edges of it and wrapped it more around himself. She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her.

"Will you come with me to my cottage? It isn't far, and I can help you walk. I have water and a fire to warm you, and good food to feed you. I can tend to your wounds there." 

He paused, his sobs dying away, and then nodded slowly. She nodded back, and stood to help him up. When she finally had him standing, she saw how large he was. Tall, broad, and muscled in a way that she recognised as having come from hard work and hard living instead of carefully cultivated bodybuilding. He was a full head and a half taller than her, and leaned on her heavily, one hand on Chulainn's head as they walked slowly back to the cottage.

When they returned, the clock on the wall read a quarter to five. She helped him through the door – he was leaning more heavily on her now – and then steered him toward one of the two large armchairs in front of the cold fireplace. He sank into one of them with a sigh, and watched her warily and dazedly and she lit the fire. Before long she had cultivated a small, bright blaze, and stood to regard her unexpected guest. He was asleep, breathing in long regular sighs, his brow creased. He was surprisingly handsome, she decided, long legged and worn in looking. Worn out, she thought ruefully, and moved one side of the robe aside gently to examine his wounds. They weren't nearly as bad as she had first assumed. They seemed half healed, three smallish puncture wounds which had bled a lot, judging from the dried smears on his flesh. Resisting a wicked temptation to move the robe aside a little more, she stood and decided to leave the first aid until he awoke. He needed sleep more than anything else now. She took an old soft quilt from the opposite chair and draped it over him. Chulainn glanced at her, then stretched out beside the slumbering man with a peculiarly doggy sigh, and closed his eyes. Wide awake, she went to the kitchen to prepare some tea and await the dawn.


	2. Lost and Found Frank

**Chapter Two: Lost and Found/ Frank**

He felt leaden, and agonisingly slow, as he tried to run, pain searing through his body as he breathed. He screamed something incomprehensible, pure crystalline defiance at fate, and swung his impossibly heavy sword once more. Someone cried out behind him, and the sound filled him with a kind of sadness. He had failed, and he was lost. He lowered his sword for a moment, and fell to his knees, his vision blurred by sweat and bood and tears of useless rage and grief. Lost, then. He looked up at a dark shape before him, its face twisted into a hideous parody of a grin, as it moved, and an impact to his chest sent him reeling and downward. At first he thought he had been punched, but the long feathered shaft caught his momentary attention, and he knew he was dying. Lost, he told himself. Someone screamed, and he turned his head, but could not see who. He fell back into the arms of the earth, the damp forest grave soil, full of rotting things, and sighed. "I am Lost," he breathed, and then gave himself to blackness, and lost himself utterly… again …

He awoke quickly, aware of his strange surroundings, and the dead weight of his limbs, and the luxuriousness of the lazy warmth that spread through him. He blinked, and flexed his hands beneath his covering. He was in a chair. A large, comfortable chair, although he ached all over as if he had returned from a battle. He paused, and considered that comparison, then forgot it. Battle? He looked down. His covering was colourful, many scraps of fabric sewed together, soft against his raw skin. Skin. Another thought came to him. He lifted the cover a little, and looked own to see a slightly grimy white robe, too small for his large frame, but adequate. Beneath it – nothing. Enquiring fingers found some mostly healed wounds that made him hiss when he probed them. His head felt heavy and unfamiliar. He looked around him. He was infront of a large fireplace with banked embers still smouldering. He sniffed. Apple wood. Then he considered where that thought came from, and gave up. He looked around again. There was another large chair opposite him, and a colourful rug on the wood floor at his feet. Bare feet. Beyond the opposite chair was a stone wall, and a tall shelf with – things – on it. Beside it was a small writing table with a smooth black object sitting on it, flat and rectangular. Above the desk a small window let in sunlight, and beside it, a door which closed only at the bottom half let in the outdoors. On the other side of the room there was a square of what seemed to be a bench, waist height, and wooden, smooth and varnished, scattered about with bowls of fruit and other items. He smelled a faint scent of – bread? Lured by the sunlight, he attempted to stand. He moved his feet, one by one, then stretched his legs straight in front of him. Finally he stood, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, and walked slowly toward the door, fumbling with the latch, and then out into the day.

Tamar was picking some late flowers and grasses to arrange in her bedroom. The breeze plucked at her long brown skirt and green shirt, and playfully tried to rearrange her hair in its braids. Chulainn lazed in a patch of autumn sunshine beside her. Earlier he had been attempting to dislodge a mole, but had realised the apparent inevitability of defeat, and instead arranged himself artfully across the patch of grass she was investigating. He raised his head and barked a gruff noise of interest. She looked back toward the cottage, and spied her strange man, standing in the sunshine, quilt puddled around his feet, robe barely covering him as he stretched out both arms on either side and turned his face to the sun, as if he had not felt it in a long long time. She watched him for a moment, unashamedly admiring his body as he stretched, this time upward, then got to her feet and joined Chulainn in heading back to the cottage.

"Good afternoon!" she called as she approached. He started, and dropped his arms, looking at her warily. A woman, the same woman who had taken him here last night. Tall, curved, long blonde braids hanging on either side of a passably pretty face, arms full of cut branches of flowers and coloured and textured grasses. His eyes drank her in, as if she were a lake and he a parched traveller. She smiled at him, and he grew warm.

"Good afternoon" she said again. He adjusted his robe, a little self consciously.

"Good…" he said, then stopped, startled by the sound of his own voice. "Good afternoon," he replied, a little cautiously. She nodded.

"Yes, its afternoon. You've slept the day away, I'm afraid, but you seemed to need it." She stopped, watching him. He looked away.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. He looked back at her, and swallowed.

"I believe my injuries are almost healed, madam," he said gruffly, as if unaccustomed to speech. She cocked her head to one side to look at him critically. 

"You look awful," she said. "You need a bath, and some food, and then you and I will have a chat. Okay?"

"Okay?" he asked, the word unfamiliar to his tongue. She nodded, and gestured him into the house.

He followed her into a small room with a man sized tub, and several smaller receptacles. She turned a silver valve, and after a moment, water poured from it into the large tub. He blinked in bemusement as steam began to curl from it. He thrust a hand beneath the stream and pulled it back as it burnt his fingers. The woman looked at him with something approaching amusement, and he bridled for a moment. 

"Haven't seen hot water for a while?" she asked. He shrugged and frowned, trying to remember hot water from his past, which remained largely unseen, composed entirely of vague shapes, and the occasional triumphant rememberance of sensation and words.

He settled for: "Not such as this, I think," and watched the water fill the tub. She turned another valve, and cold water joined the hot, and soon the tub was full. She looked at him expectantly.

"Okay," she repreated, and he frowned in frustation at her repeated use of the foreign term. She pointed at a small shelf, and said "Towels. You can use the green ones." She pointed to the corner of the tub, where a small white object sat. "Soap," she said. She took three steps and crossed the room to the door. She turned, and looked at him over her shoulder, then left him closing the door behind her. He stood still for a moment, then cautionusly tested the temperature of the water. Quite warm, but not intolerably hot. He ran his hand through the water, a flickering memory of this sensation returning for a minute. The fact that he remembered that much cheered him, as did the sunshine filtering through the small window above the tub. For some reason, the sunshine was more precious to him than… He savoured every moment of warmth, and every shadow cast by its light. After a moment, he returned his attention to the water. It was obvious that she expected him to wash, and upon inspecting his hands briefly, he agreed with her judgement. He gingerly removed the soiled robe, and dropped it in a corner. Looking down, he saw with mild surprise that the wounds he had thought were but half healed were almost reduced to puckered scars. He wondered what had happened to cause them. Aching and stiff, he climbed awkwardly into the water, and crouched down, acclimatising himself to the temperature, before easing his length into the warmth. He was slightly too tall for the tub, but the heat stole into his muscles, and he sighed as he felt himself relax once more. It felt like an unaccustomed sensation to him, a slightly dangerous and almost guilty pleasure. He grew wary for a moment, but nothing happened, and he released the feeling. Grime floated away from his body, and he was almost surprised at how filthy he was. But, he reasoned, its hardly surprising considering the way he had been living, sleeping rough, walking all day, and the battle – he jerked back, surprised, and tried to pinpoint the why behind that thought. Why had he been travelling? To where, and with whom? And the battle… He reached for the soap, contemplative, and scrubbed away more of the dirt, scrutinising it as it rinsed away, as if it could hold clues to his past, and present self. It remained obstinately silent.

Tamar leaned against the kitchen bench, and pursed her lips. Where had he come from? Why was he in such a state? He was obviously in a bad way when she found him. How on earth had he been wounded like that? Stabbed? And naked. And almost incomprehensible. And possibly, she realised, quite possibly a little mad. She remembered a tale from a lurid tabloid that a friend had clipped and sent as a contribution to the scrapbook she kept of interesting bits and pieces for inspiration. It was about a man in Mexico, who had been reported missing in 1975, after having simply vanished while filling his car at a petrol station, only to turn up in 1989 living in a cave in Central Park in New York, with absolutely no knowledge of who he was, let alone how he had gotten there, or how he had spent the last fourteen years. He had been reintroduced to his Mexican family, and had eventually regained his identity, but no memory of the fourteen year gap in his existence. The prevailing theory in the article was alien abduction, but Tamar had always found the ease with which every acknowledged oddity was blamed on extra – terrestrials with nefarious plans and equally nasty senses of humour a little disappointing. Surely, she reasoned, there were stranger things in heaven and earth, without having to look beyond it. She grinned to herself, then frowned in thought. Should she call the police about him? Perhaps he had been reported missing at some stage, had a family waiting to take him in? She considered the possibility. The muscle on him, and the obvious callouses on his hands meant that he had been recently involved in some kind of manual work or activity. He was filthy and covered in blood, granted, yet beneath it, his beard was trimmed, his hair cut, although longish, and his muscle tone sound from regular meals. He was an enigma. She decided to talk with him about what he remembered, and discuss with him what he wanted to do. He was a grown man, and she had to assume that he would take some interest in his own future. She listened for a moment for noises from the bathroom, and was caught by a soft regular sound. Intrigued, she crept closer, and paused near the bathroom door. He was humming.

Half an hour later, he emerged, wrapped once more in the white gown, hair wet and stringy, face clean, and looking scrubbed. Tamar was sitting at her desk, reading over the previous night's chapters. Her story was floundering, lacking in direction. She wrote under a male pseudonym, spy thrillers and action stories once named by a reviewer as being 'Clancy – esque in style and elegance.' She had published three novels as George Mear, and had bought the cottage on the strength of the royalty cheque from the last one. But with this one she was stuck for ideas, for plot, and for passion. The story sounded too familiar, done over many times before, by better writers with a firmer grasp of the nuances of nuclear devices. She was bored. The work she had done last night sounded wooden, her characters more like cardboard cut out action heroes than real living breathing people. She sighed, willing her mystery guest to reappear and distract her from the frustration of her contractually motivated novel. A noise behind her made her jump, and turn. He stood in the kitchen, looking awkward and uncomfortable, but cleaner, calmer, and with better colour. His hair was a light reddish brown, as was his beard, although darkened from the water. His face, neck and hands were tanned, darker than the rest of his skin, and more weathered looking. His demeanour had been much improved by the bath also – he stood up straight, and although fatigue still dragged at his eyes, he looked around with something approaching interest, tempered by caution and unease. 

"Hello there," she greeted him, rising and closing her laptop. He looked at her, and moistened his lips.

"You look much better," she added, smiling. "Almost human again, I'd say. Are you hungry?"

He appeared to consider the question for a moment.

"Thankyou," he replied. And then attempted a small smile, a little lopsided but none the less serviceable. He was a little embarassed, she suspected, and began to think of how to clothe him more appropriately.

"I'll fix you some tea, and some food, and then I'll look into some real clothes for you, yes?"

He nodded, once, twice, then smiled his rusty lopsided smile again. He stood aside as she entered the kitchen and filled the white plastic kettle at the sink, watching intently as she replaced it on the bench and plugged it in. He moved to see around her as she flicked it on, seemingly fascinated by the appliance. If he likes the jug so much, she thought, wait'll he sees the toaster. She glanced at him, and saw his attention had been diverted by a bowl of apples on the draining board. She gestured to them.

"Help yourself, if you want."

He looked up at her, then carefully selected one apple from the top of the bowl, turning it over and over in his large hands, and smelling it almost blissfully.

"I like these," he said, with an expression of wonderment. "I like these very much," he repeated, firmer, more determined. He raised it to his mouth and took a large bite, eyes closed. Tamar almost felt as if she were intruding on a personal moment, but he opened his eyes and grinned broadly at her as he chewed. 

"Good apple," he said, gesturing with the fruit. She raised her eyebrows, and exhaled slowly, nodding. She retrieved a loaf of bread from the cupboard, and some left over chicken from the refrigerator. When she returned her attention to him, he was gazing away, out of the window, contemplatively gnawing at the apple core. He was, she thought, an extremely attractive man. He moved with an unconscious grace, almost like a cat, despite his size. Tamar deposited the cut bread and chicken joints on a plate. He turned to her, and she pointed to a bucket by the sink.

"For the core," she supplied. He stooped, deposited it in the bucket, and stood. She handed him the plate of food, and gestured at the table. It's an odd, semi – silent kind of conversation, she thought, perhaps he has problems with language. I've certainly never heard his accent before. Making two cups of tea, she sat opposite him, and blew at the steam in her mug as he ate like he had not eaten in days. Which, she considered, he may well not have done.

"Good?" she asked. He nodded.

"We need to have a talk," she began, then stopped, uncertain of what she wanted to say. "Have you recalled anything at all?" she began. He paused in his motion, and looked thoughtful.

"I have small memories," he said slowly, "nothing really clear." He popped a piece of bread into his mouth and chewed. "I remember a battle. I think."

"You mean a fight? Like you were attacked?" she asked, sensing something important.

He shook his head. "No, well, yes… I mean…" He sighed, and shrugged unhappily. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

She looked at him.

"Your name?" she asked gently. Again, he looked thoughtful, his brow creased.

"I think… Ffff… Ffff…" he stuttered, uncertainty written across his features.

"Fred?" Tamar supplied.

"Ffff… Frrr…Fa –" he uttered something softly which sounded like a curse, then looked surprised, and repeated it.

"Vara's tits!" he said, almost triumphantly. Tamar, grinned in spite of herself.

"Is that your name?" she asked. He shook his head earnestly.

"No. Ffffaaa something. Fffrrr…"

Frank?" she tried. He looked unsure.

"Well, I have to call you something," she pointed out. He cocked his head, considering.

"Frank?" he suggested.

"Frank, then," she agreed.

He smiled, and then bent his head to his plate, and finished the meal.


	3. A Man Again A Question

CHAPTER 3: A MAN AGAIN/A QUESTION 

Later, Tamar went searching for clothes. His robe was grimy and barely decent, and she could tell that he was self – conscious as he sat, a little awkwardly at the table in a rectangle of afternoon sunlight, brow creased in deep thought. Reluctant to break his reverie, she left him and slipped away into her bedroom determined to find him something more suitable to wear. The problem of what to do with him weighed heavily on her mind. She should, she knew, report him to the police, list him as a 'found' person. (There should, she reasoned, be a 'found' persons list as well as a missing persons list…) He had a _quality_ about him, though, which made her reconsider. He was not so much lost as _moved_, not quite Real, not entirely Unreal. She frowned and sighed, frustrated by her own indecision. Very well then, since he seemed to be harmless for the moment, she would let him remain unmolested by outside intrusion until such time as the issue became forced. 'Frank' he would be until he chose otherwise. She delved deeply into a pile of clothes on the floor of her wardrobe. Her clothes never seemed to stay put away, preferring instead to dwell in happy community on her floor. Intent as a pig after truffles, she pursed her lips in consideration as she pulled out an oversized tshirt and a pair of sweat pants that had been too big even for her generous frame. The tshirt was navy, and the sweat pants an unfortunate shade of grey, not quite dark grey, not quite pale grey. She had work them once, rolled up and baggy, when she had first moved to the cottage, to unblock some drainage ditches to the rear of the property. They had mostly recovered in the wash but still bore some serious stains as a testament to their mistreatment. Still, they were the largest clothes she had, and would just have to do. She draped them over one arm, and scooped the rest of the clothes back into the haphazard pile. She stood, and looked about the room in a moment of self indulgent satisfaction. It had been the first room she had finished in the cottage, its walls a lavender colour, the board floor painted a pale ice green to match the curtains, which had been the result of left over fabric from the bedspread. She smiled to herself, then turned her back on the room and went back to the kitchen.

He was sitting where she had left him, the remains of his meal on the plate before him, lost in concentrated thought. When she entered, he looked up and gave his lopsided smile.

"I have clothes for you to try on," she said, gesturing to her bundle. "I'd like my robe back, eventually."

He nodded, and peered curiously at the garments she handed him, feeling the fabric.

"It's soft," he said at last. 

"Go into the bathroom and try them on. They're the biggest I've got, but they should fit at least enough for you to be comfortable, I think."

He rose, and brushed past her into the small bathroom, emerging a few minutes later wearing the outfit. The tshirt was fine, the pants a little short, and a little small, but still serviceable.

Tamar nodded. "They'll do for now. Tomorrow I can hit town and get you some new clothes."

He paused, and looked uncomfortable.

She raised her eyebrows in enquiry.

He cleared his throat, and looked down. "I… I thank you for your kindnesses, lady. I think… I feel almost like a man again."

Tamar reached out and took his hand in sudden sympathy. It was large and calloused hard in her own.

"Hey. No problem, okay?"

He looked discomfited for a moment. "What does that word mean? Okay?"

She stared at him for a moment in surprise. "It means… um, good or fine."

"Then," he replied, "you… are okay."

Tamar laughed out loud.

"Well thankyou."

That night, he slept. She had made him a pallet on the clear spot of the floor of the second bedroom, a pile of blankets and cushions that was comfortable enough. His body told him that a soft bed was a luxury, feeling almost uneasy as he settled into the makeshift mattress. He closed his eyes, and sleep took him immediately and suddenly.

_He was seventeen, and in a garden… no, a wood. Green and brown around him, unclear but solid in context. The air smelled of resin and leaf litter, and the ground was soft beneath his booted feet. He was crouching by a tree… hiding?… a sword resting easily in his hand. He was alert, listening, anticipating…_

_The attack was sudden when it came, the smaller figure bursting out at him from behind in a flurry of brown leaves tossed up into whirlwind. It hit him with a thud, cannoning into his chest and belly and yelling in a cracked voice as it pummeled him with a tree branch._

_"You're dead! I killed you!" the figure cried gleefully. As he sat up, rubbing his chin where a stray blow had caught it, he smiled and laughed._

_"Very good, Faramir. Very good indeed. One day you shall truly become a great captain for Gondor!"_

_The figure resolved itself into a younger boy, collapsed against a tree root, still clutching his bit of branch, cheek smeared with mud in a childish imitation of the camouflage worn sometimes by older warriors. Faramir was laughing, his red brown hair flopping into his face. _

_He stood, and reached for the child, hoisting him up by the lacing of his jerkin, and ruffling his hair in rough affection._

_"Come, captain of Gondor, we must return to the others before you are missed."_

_A small face turned up to his._

_"Captain of Gondor?" the boy asked. He squinted upwards, considering. "But I shall be taller than you, brother, and much handsomer." _

_The older youth laughed, and landed a soft punch to his brother's small chin before taking his grubby hand and dragging him along a forest path…_

When he awoke, the memory of the dream slipped quickly away, leaving him with nothing but disjointed images and a tangy metallic ache of loss and grief. Again he slept, but did not dream more that night.

He awoke again, quickly, when dawn's indigo haze entered through the curtainless window and lightened the room to a pale gloom. He became aware of a warm body beside him, and rolled over. Chulainn's great grey head rested on the pillow next to his, small blissful snores coming from it. The dog shifted slightly and opened his eyes, glaring balefully at Frank before flopping over and taking much of the blanket with him. Frank sighed and yawned, and stretched where he lay, his joints aching slightly from the position in which he had slept. He hauled himself up to stand, and stretch again. The air was cool, but not chilly, as he considered for a moment, then kicked some more blankets over the slumbering dog before pacing out into the kitchen. Tamar's door was closed. He paused before it, listening intently, but hearing nothing to suggest that she was awake. In the bathroom, he regarded the silver valves for a moment before cautiously turning one and producing a stream of cold water. He splashed his face, and stood to regard himself in the mirror. He met his own gaze, cool blue grey eyes reflected and reflective, somber in the half light. Whose eyes? Frank was a name, but not a name he felt was his own. He lifted his shirt, and examined the scars on his torso, now healed over and turning to scar tissue. Concerned, the thought came to him that they seemed to be healing over too quickly. He lowered his hem, and frowned at his reflection, which remained silent and as bemused as he.

Outside, the air was crisp and the horizon smudged pale grey and mauve beyond the trees to the rear of the cottage. He stood outside in bare feet on the path which led from the back door, past Tamar's vegetable garden, to a few old tumbledown sheds and outbuildings. The leaves of the trees were brown and russet red, and stirred a memory, dreamlike behind his eyes. He blinked, and it went away. A sound from behind him made him start and turn. Chulainn stood in the open door behind him, snuffing appreciatively at the morning air. He looked at Frank and made a low chuffing sound in his chest, and came forward to stand beside him. Frank absently scratched his ears and shivered in the morning chill as he gazed away, toward the rising sun. _What manner of man was he?_ Silently, man and dog stood together in the dawn, each thinking his own thoughts.

Just outside the back door of the cottage, between the green door and the slightly ramshackle vegetable garden, was a stump, old and large and grey, mutilated and shaped by countless gashes and nicks in its surfaces. Stuck firmly in the top of it was an axe, long handled and well worn. Beside it lay a few small piles of kindling, and a larger pile of uncut wood. Frank grasped its significance immediately, and, muscles restless, gripped the axe haft in one hand and pulled it free. He swung it experimentally a few times. It felt good in his hand, solid and capable, smooth spots worn along its length by repeated use. He pulled a smallish log free of the pile, and balanced it on the stump. With two direct blows, he split it along its length into two pieces of firewood. Grinning, he tossed them to one side, and reached for another length of log.

At length, he had a fair sized pile of firewood chopped and stacked where the jumble of uncut logs had been. He stood upright, axe still in hand, and wiped sweat from his brow. He felt good – alive – his muscles warmed and comfortable from the exertion. He was still, the cool autumn air on his face, and his feet cold on the earth. A small brown bird alighted for a second on the stump, regarded him sternly from tiny black eyes and darted away. He smiled. For a moment, he was utterly content, and still within himself, all questions and puzzles forgot in favour of the scent of the earth and the resinous aroma of the wood heavy in the early morning.

Chulainn barked from the stand of apple trees by the corner of the building, and Frank grinned in reply. Chulainn barked again, and Frank became aware of the crunch of footsteps steady on the gravel, approaching the cottage from the other side. His grip on the axe handle tightened, and he listened, breathing steadily but lightly. A tuneful whistle, and a clinking sound accompanied the footsteps. They drew closer, and Frank felt his muscles bunching and moving of their own accord, hefting the axe a little higher. His eyes widened, and his lips grew tight, as warmth coursed through his veins. This felt… right, this waiting, this weapon, this bloodrush and sweat. The footsteps and whistling grew closer, almost to the corner of the cottage. Frank paused, action stored in the memory of his body, awaiting release. A man, short and dark, wearing a blue shirt and pants, carrying a basket containing several bottles of white liquid. He was whistling, and looking about him. He looked up as Chulainn bounded from the trees to meet him, tongue lolling, and tail waving. Catching sight of Frank, he froze still, and blinked, dropping the basket as Frank drew himself up to his full height, his knuckles white on the dark wood axe handle. The man blinked, once, twice, and Frank felt an icy spot between his eyes, and for a moment the man's brow blazed silver in the morning light. Distracted, Frank loosened his grip on the axe handle. The man's eyes widened.

"My Lord," he stammered. "My Lord, it's you! But how…"

Frank narrowed his eyes. "Tell me who you are," he commanded. The man swallowed.

"K – Kored, my liege. Of Gondor. Your man for many seasons. Do you not know me?"

Frank shook his head in confusion. "I do not."

Kored cleared his throat.

"It is you, I am certain. My Lord Boromir, heir to Gondor! Do you not know yourself?"

A rustle at the door beside him made him turn his attention for a second. Tamar stood there, her face unreadable as she watched him.


	4. Memory Redux A Quiet Life

CHAPTER 4: MEMORY REDUX/ A QUIET LIFE

Tamar glanced at the milkman – Kored, that sounded Welsh didn't it? – and back to Frank, whose grip on the blocksplitter, whiteknuckled, was tightening. His eyes were wide, and his nostrils flared with each breath. The moment hung in the air, heavy with potential. Kored took a step back, feeling his way on the gravel with cautious toes.

            "I know that look sire. Many's the time I seen the very hordes of Mordor cower beneath it!"

Frank inhaled and hissed: "I don't know what you speak of."

Tamar stepped forward, positioning herself barely between them and addressed Kored. "Perhaps you'd better leave."

The older man noded, and bent to pick up his basket, the milk bottles clanking, discordant. He stepped back again, facing Frank who remained motionless. Kored's gaze flicked back and forth between the rigidly posed man and the silent watchful woman, lingering for a moment, seemingly doubtful, on Tamar. He nodded again, and faced Frank squarely.

"The oathes I made still stand, Sire, even after death, even here. I am your man, and will follow willingly if you but give the word," he said softly, and Tamar caught the cadence of a rote learned oath. Something inscrutable passed across Frank's eyes, and he blinked rapidly several times, and abruptly lowered the axe. "Go," he uttered quietly and forcefully. Kored made something like a salute, and, turning swiftly on his heel, crunched away across the gravel, out of sight behind the house. Tamar turned back to Frank, who sighed wearily and dropped the axe the ground where it hit the gravel with a muted slap. Nearby a bee busied itself in a last expedition before winter's sleep, and a crow called roughly from the other side of the house. Frank stood with his eyes on her, his gaze steady, but his throat twitching convulsively.

            "I… apologise, Lady," he said, his voice uneven. Tamar swallowed, her mouth dry, and shivered as the latent violence of the previous scene began to dissolve to be replaced by a new kind of tension. Her movements were stiff as she took a step forward, and picked up the axe, holding it firmly. She looked up at his grave face and in a strained voice said , "Mrs MacNeill will be dropping some eggs off this morning. Please don't try to kill her too." Then she turned and walked past him into the dark door of the cottage, taking the axe with her. 

            He stood for a short minute where he was, listening to the bee, the crow, the small sounds she made as she moved about the kitchen. Then he began to walk, a sudden burst of energy forcing him to _action_, to movement. The kinetic joy he felt while chopping wood was replaced by an urgent need to be doing… anything. His strides were short and precise, a little wary with bare feet on cool ground, but he kept moving, away from the buildings and out into the awakening day and grass that rippled like water in his wake.

            Tamar was restless and nervous as she rinsed the coffee maker jug under the kitchen cold tap. Her mouth was twisted into a moue of unease, and her brow was heavy and creased. What the hell had that been about? And the milkman definitely seemed to know Frank – Boromir? In his favour though, Frank did seem to be genuinely confused by the man. Identities are often better unknown than concealed, she thought, quoting herself from a recent novel.  She glanced over to the axe, leaning by the green door, as she replaced the glass jug and fitted a filter to the top of it. The sharpness of ground coffee shocked her senses for a moment as she added the rich brown grains to the filter and snapped it shut. Flicking the switch, and leaving the hissing, gurgling machine to itself, she turned to the window and stared out of it for a long time. Who was he, this man that she had found like a wounded bird beneath a tree? Sparrow - or hawk? The crow outside called again, sending shivers through her with its callous, mocking tone.

He walked until he stopped. Not too long. He had walked through the grass, eyes forward, back straight, until he had come to a black granite outcropping. It broke through the soil like the crest of some enormous wave, topped with lichen like froth, frozen forever in ageless stone. He stopped, and stared at it, then away and past it, over the meadow to the edge of the forest. He felt unprotected out here, naked. The other man's words had stripped something from him – and replaced it with something else.  Doubt coiled like a heavy serpent in his entrails, and he felt sick and formlessly angry. The other man, Kored, had called him Boromir, and 'my lord', and had sworn an ages old oath before him. It was an oath that he had heard many times, and now the words spilled from his throat as he remembered them.

"As the blood of Numenor once flowed, mine flows now for Gondor and for you. I am your man, and will follow willingly if you but give the word."

They felt good, tasted familiar on his tongue. He repeated it, stronger, with more conviction. He _had_ said this. Many times… he stopped, his moment of recall interrupted by the uncomfortable sensation of words left unsaid. That there was something he had meant to say… to someone. He had wanted to swear that oath, but had not. _Could_ not, a small voice in his head hissed. He passed a hand over his face, rubbing his growing stubble.

"Boromir," he said, testing the sensation. "I am Boromir. Lord Boromir." 

"Yes, sire," came a soft voice behind him. "You are still the Lord Boromir."

He turned sharply, fingers closing into fists. Kored stood there, puffing slightly, still dressed in his blue uniform, his gaze intent upon Boromir's face. He did not flinch.

"You are Boromir, Lord of Gondor, saviour of the town of Tirnalan. I remember, even if you do not."

Boromir shivered in the shadow cast by the tor, his face frozen. Tirnalan.

"Keep talking," he ordered. Kored nodded.

"You are the son of Denethor, Ruling Steward. Your brother is Faramir –"

"Faramir…" he whispered.

Kored nodded. "Yes, your brother is also a warrior, although but a stripling boy when last I saw him." His voice dropped to an almost intimate tone. "You are the hope of your people. If you are here, then all is truly lost at last…" he trailed away with a small sigh and a sob.

Boromir stood straight, and gazed past him. "I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Lord of Gondor," he said softly. His eyes snapped back to the man before him.

"You served with me at Tirnalan. You were a sargeant, an archer of some reknown. I remember you now. We were trapped in an alley by a phalanx of enemy fighters, and you and your brother – Marduk? – You perched atop a roof and picked enough from the edges that we were able to break and run for cover. I lost so many men that day…" His stare grew unfocussed. "I though for sure that all was lost, another city drowned in the darkness. But somehow at the end of the fighting, I was standing, and the town was mine again. Mine. I had snatched it back from between the talons of Mordor, and held it firm against my breast. I wore the silver and sable of Gondor that day, and stained it with the blood of Gondor's enemies. And you," he said, returning his attention to Kored, who stood rapt and attentive, "you… I went searching for you afterwards, to thank you. But you were…" He stopped, his throat closed and wooden. Kored's body had been one of those laid carefully against the town's broken wall, eyes closed with a gauntleted hand, arms crossed over the raw seeping wound that slit his belly almost in half. Boromir blinked at the memory. His bow had been a snapped twig, laid beside him. But now, Kored stood before him, wearing unfamiliar clothing, and unchanged from that day – albeit alive. 

"You were dead," Boromir stated, his tone faintly accusatory. Kored nodded, slowly.

"Aye, I died once that day, for Gondor. Is it not odd that we should meet like this, in the Afterlife?"

Boromir swallowed, once, twice. "This, then, is what awaits?" He gestured around him with one hand. "This?"

He sat down abruptly, and rested his head in his hands. Kored sat, a little awkwardly, some distance away.

"How did you die, Lord?" he asked softly. Boromir looked up.

"What?"

"How did you die? If you are here, then…" Kored's question faded beneath the inference. Boromir sat up, and closed his eyes.

"I died…" he said unsteadily. "I am dead. I died."

Kored was still, his eyes sympathetic.

"Battle," Boromir supplied at length, openeing his eyes. He sought a memory of his death, of what had killed him, of where he had been and why. Images, of a dark shape, of screaming, fighting, of pain that tore the breath from his lungs, of a man's creased brow hovering above him… But nothing more.

"Of course," Kored stated. "You were ever the most honourable and valiant among us."

Boromir looked at him, raising his eyebrows slightly, and smiling. "I thank you, yeoman, but I fear that here, in this world, qualities such as you and I hold most dear may count for naught." 

Kored pursed his lips. "This world is not so different from the one we left, Sire. I have been here for six seasons now, and I am contented well enough."

Boromir creased his brow in surprise. "Six? But the Battle for Tirnalan was but two seasons ago. In winter. Are you certain of it?"

Kored cocked his head to one side, then nodded. "Aye. Certain. Six seasons. Two in my current occupation." He smiled slightly. "This place has no need of any more soldiers, Lord. Although my hand sorely misses my bow at times, I am well content to deliver milk, and live a quiet life."

He lapsed into silence, and Boromir grew thoughtful and still. A quiet life. He thought of the cottage with the green door, and the woman and hound within. He may no longer be welcome in that place, but he could find another. Kored had adjusted, and if there were one of his men in this world, he reasoned that there must be more. Perhaps…

At length, he returned to the cottage. Tamar saw them approaching from the kitchen window, and stepped into the shadows of the back door to watch them approach, one finger tip straying the handle of the axe which still stood there. The two men, Frank and the milkman, Kored, approached together, deep in coversation. They paused at the edge of the yard, by a disused farm building, and exchanged a few more words before parting, Kored moving quickly toward his van, checking his wristwatch, and Frank standing and watching him go before shifting a considering gaze toward the cottage. Tamar studied him closely. He was different somehow, perhaps taller, or sterner. With a lithe grace that had not previously been present, he began to move toward the cottage. She shrank back, out of the shadows into the interior of the house. He entered, momentarily filling the doorway with his large dark form before moving into the kitchen, his bare feet making quiet scuffing sounds on the tiled floor. Tamar followed him, and when she entered the kitchen, he was standing before the coffee maker, a look of contemplation on his face. He looked up when she made a slight noise. Something close to embarassment crossed his features, and he ducked his head.

"I apologise for frightening you, Lady," he said. Even his voice was different, she thought. Stronger, with an edge to it. In his current clothes – the old tshirt and stained and too short track pants – he had acquired a bearing that surprised her. Almost regal, she supposed, although she had never seen a member of the Royal family to make the comparison.

"You know who you are," she said shortly. After a moment, he nodded.

"Yes. Yeoman Kored does speak the truth. Although I fear I may have been momentarily… outside of myself… I have regained my name and somewhat of my history, although much is still unaccounted for."

Tamar stood straight, and raised her eyebrows in question. He swallowed, and looked her in the eye.

"I am Boromir, Lord of Gondor, son of Denethor, High Steward of Gondor," he said in a firm voice. She looked at him. She blinked.

"Uh-huh."

There was a moment of silence. And another. Tamar sighed.

"That's it?"

He nodded, a slightly imperious cast to his action. She pursed her lips.

"You can tell me the truth, you know. Surely you owe me that much. If it's a matter of the police, I don't care what it is you've done as long as you don't do it here. Why – "

"I speak the truth, Lady Tamar," he said loudly, interrupting her. "I am no criminal, assuredly. I am a Lord of Gondor. I have regained myself at last, here." He gestured around him. She frowned.

"In the kitchen?"

"No." He gestured again, impatiently. "The Afterlife. Here. With you."

She was silent for a moment, and rubbed at her eye when it itched slightly.

"So – you are Boromir, the Lord of Gondor, and you are dead, and this is the Afterlife?"

He nodded. "Yes."

She pursed her lips again. "Uh-huh." She sighed again, considering. Why not? Her first thought had been aliens, admittedly. Surely this was just as entertainingly odd. She had sensed something otherworldly about him when she had first encountered him that night, something of the Unreal. She studied him for a moment.

He looked steadily back at her, his handsome face serious. She rubbed a hand across her cheeks.

"Why don't you tell me more about yourself?" she said at last. His posture relaxed slightly, and he smiled his crooked half smile.

It seemed to him that the more he spoke of it, the more he could say for certain. He spoke of his father, the High Steward, and of his brother, Faramir. He spoke of hia childhood in Osgiliath, and the way in which the sun struck the ruins of the old bridge just so. He spoke passionately and low about the moon on the spires and gates of the Silver City, and the trumpets ringing high and clear across the land at his return. He spoke of battle, of high magics and low, of the feeling of a good sword in hand and the enemy within reach, and ready to fall. He spoke of the high wide grasslands of the Riddermark and the men who rode endlessly across its length, of the hidden cities of dwarves and elves, and the ruins of the elder cities of men. He spoke briefly of his mother, and sorrowed afresh at her passing,as he had done when he was a child. He remembered more and more of himself, and of the world from which he had departed. It seemed that every tick in his bedroll, every innkeeper, every courtier's embellished gesture had carved for itself a place in his memory. At last he stopped, aware that he had reached a point where even words refused to reveal any more of his past, or of his death. Tamar sat before him, silent and attentive, her face fixed in concentration as she listened. He wondered about her. She had not believed him when he had declared himself, yet she sat and listened as if entranced by his voice, and his words. She was as extraordinary a woman as he had ever met, he decided.

"I should like very much," he said quietly, "to resign myself to my fate. I am dead, and Gondor cannot be aided by my sword any longer."

She nodded, thoughtful. His stories had held conviction. He believed what he said to be the truth, and Tamar found herself half believing it as well. Whatever he was running from, whatever he was concealing, she thought, she did not feel him to be at all threatening. His truths would come out in time.

"I should like to stay. Here, with you," he said, his voice rising slightly in question. "I have been one of the truest warriors of Men, but I am dead. I want a quiet life."

Tamar nodded again. 

"You'll have to sleep on the floor until we decide what's to become of you."

He smiled his half smile, and nodded in agreement.

***********************************************

Please R&R, as I am a bit uncomfortable with some of the language in this chapter. CHAPTER 5 will be delayed by the fact that my computer is currently moving house with me, and may not be put together for a while. I'll do my best. 

As a spoiler, Gandalf is coming to tea.….


	5. Gardening Stormcrow Rampant

CHAPTER 5: GARDENING/ STORMCROW RAMPANT

Tamar had begun to suspect that this was coming. In fact, for the last few days she had been expecting, almost anticipating this moment. There were so many pointers, tinier than grains of sand, but just as formidable when added togther. A word, a brush, a raised eyebrow… It all added up to this moment.

Earlier, they had returned from town – his first exposure to it. She had bought more clothes for him, and food for Chulainn and themselves. Then she had decided to cut the trip short when the stres began to appear around his mouth and eyes in tiny pale lines. When they had arrived home, after a drive on which a great many explanations were attempted (How does one explain electricity? Or the scanner in the supermarket? Or tinned pineapple from Australia?), he dressed himself in his new clothes (a pair of second hand jeans and an old navy issue scarf from the thrift shop, and a new sweatshirt in dark khaki as well as a new pair of elastic sided boots) and, whistling to Chulainn to follow, left the cottage by the back door and headed away onto the grass. Chulainn obligingly complied, his long legs moving lazily, red tongue flopping as he trotted in large cirlces around Boromir as they moved away. Tamar watched them from the kitchen window as she finished putting away the groceries, each box of oatmeal and tin of meat accounted for and stacked. The day was chill, the sky darkly overcast, the yard reflecting only grey and brown from peeling paint and gravel. She stepped outside the green door and squinted upward, sniffing the air for the ozone scent of approaching rain. She could still see them in the distance, man and dog both moving with a long limbed grace that caught and held her attention. She knew that Boromir often met Kored by the granite outcropping, but he never mentioned it more than in passing, and she never pressed him on it.

It had been three weeks since the night that had seen him moved permanently intot he spare room, three weeks since he had become a permanent fixture in the old blue velour armchair by the fire. Three weeks since he had become a permanent part of her own life. She could hardly imagine the place without him now, his moods and his endless need for activity to keep him busy. She had not chopped wood since he arrived. She was considering setting him at preparing the winter garden, harvesting potatoes, and turning the sod under the kitchen window to set the beds for spring. Then, he could try his hand at planting, she suspected for the first time.

As she watched him walk away, growing smaller against the green in the distance and the dark grey bluffs and cloudmountains on the horizon, he saw him turn and gaze back at the cottage. She shrank back inside, irrationally not wanting him to see her watching him. He stood, staring at the cottage, until Chulainn thrust a wet nose into his palm, and he turned back to the path and kept walking. He returned half and hour later, damp and smiling, Chulainn leaving a trail of muddy leaves through the back door. 

"Home is the hunter," Tamar quoted. He grinned.

"I've brought a storm for you," he replied, glancing out at the darkening sky as he closed the door. "It approaches from the west. I think we shall be wet tonight."

Tamar nodded and handed him a blue mug of the tea he liked, spiced with cardamom. He sipped it cautiously, and placed it on the bench as he uncurled his scarf from around his neck and hung it untidily on a hook by the door. He kicked off his boots and Tamar raised her eyebrows at him.

"So how're you liking that quiet life of yours?" she asked, amused by his casual hominess. He sipped at his tea again.

"Well enough, Lady. Well enough I think." He smiled at her through the steam, his eyes gentle on her face, and she unaccountably felt like she was blushing.

_That was it, then – the moment. The moment that could define the future_.

She turned away from it, and busied herself stacking some plates in the sink.

"I thought we might try some gardening tomorrow. Prepare the beds for spring planting before the ground gets too cold."

He peered at her dubiously.

"Farming? Well, I have often thought of it as a noble enough pursuit…" He still looked doubtful, but nodded. "Very well. I must certainly earn my keep somehow."

She refused to look at him, still conscious of the heat on her cheeks.

"Good. Great. First thing tomorrow then. Gardening."

He frowned at her. "You are unhappy?"

She stiffened. "No, I'm fine. It's just… my story. It's not going anywhere. I'm stuck."

He replaced his mug on the bench and crossed the room to the fireplace where he began to light the fire she had laid earlier.

"Oh. Perhaps I could help?" he offered over his shoulder. "I am no bard, but I enjoy a good tale."

"No." her voice was tight. She kept her face turned away, feeling her colour rise again. Why couldn't she stop blushing? Part of her discomfort was anger, she knew, with herself for her sudden reaction to him. Daring a glance at him as he crouched in front of a tenuous flame, she swallowed her irritation to admit that he was a man who was hard to have at constant close quarters. The other day she had caught him singing again, as he rinsed a plate in the kitchen. His voice was rough, but true, the words and melody strange to her ears. He had looked up at her and grinned broadly. Then looked down and kept singing, although softer. The day before that he had been helping her shift some branches that came down in a wind. He had picked up a longish straightish branch, and began a series of excercises that looked to her like fencing moves or kendo. His body was long and lean, and fast, and familiar with the movement. Later that day, Kored had come to visit, and the two had found matched branches, pared them down, and sparred all afternoon before swapping some bloodcurdling stories over coffee in the evening. Tamar felt increasingly uneasy around him, and not only because of her attraction to him. He seemed almost too large to fit into this world. She would catch him staring away occasionally, a black expression on his face, and she knew that he had nightmares that he did not recall in the morning when she asked about them. There was something beneath his surface that made her pause, some unguessed at secret that was rising nearer to being known. Abruptly, she became aware that he was humming again, a sad sounding song with an exotic scale.

"What is that song?" she asked. "I've heard you humming it before. And Kored too."

He paused, then sighed.

"It is a song I'll not hear again unless it is my own voice that supplies it. It is a song of my people, one which is often sung by soldiers."

"Soldiers? But it sounds… haunted. Sad."

He looked at her, his face unreadable. Then he turned away and poked at the fire before sitting in his customary place. She stood for a moment, wondering what she had said to upset him. Then he began to sing softly.

_Farewell my dearest girl_

_I must take up my arms _

_And follow the call_

Although the moon is at your window 

_And your fragrant hair bids me stay._

_Farewell my dearest girl_

_My sword is heavy in my hand_

_But I must take it_

_And if I do not return to you_

_Know that my heart is heavier._

He stopped abruptly. "There's more, but I do not wish to relate it."

Tamar shivered. "Did you ever sing it to a girl?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, I never sang it to her. My heart was never heavy to leave her."

"Do you miss her?" she asked, resigning herself to the answer. He glanced back at her.

"No. I barely knew Lidda at all. She was betrothed to me when I was a lad, and she a babe. She was the daughter of my father's closest friend. I did not…. It did not happen that we ever married. The betrothal was broken by circumstance. I doubt she was troubled by it." His voice carried a trace of bitterness. "I am not a man who has loved often… or well."  She sensed a story, but also sensed that the moment to ask him more was not this one. Instead she went to him and sat in the chair opposite.Chulainn was sprawled clumsily in front of the fire, snoring quietly and looking as if every bone in his body had turned to rubber. Tamar regarded him for a moment before turning her attention to the man beside her. He was staring contemplatively into the fire, long fingers steepled in front of his face.

"Have you given any thought to what you will do? In the future I mean." She schooled her voice to nonchalance. "Maybe Kored could help you find work."

He did not reply. Rain hit the window with a slap as it began to fall, and a wind picked up, rattling the trees on the far side of the cottage. Boromir looked up abruptly, watchful, as if he had sensed something.

"Storm's coming," he said softly. Chulainn snorted and sat up, ears pricked and nose snuffing. He made a grunting noise, and pushed himself up to stand by Tamar, yellow eyes fixed on the green door. Tamar felt her gaze swing toward the door as well, the pale hair on her arms and the back of her neck prickling uncomfortably. Boromir looked at her, then at the door.

"Boromir?" Tamar enquired quietly. "Will you answer the door please?"

As she finished speaking, there was a loud knock at the door, as if it had been struck by something. Then another.

Then a moment of silence. Tamar's ears popped, and she could hear the rain and the wind as the storm gained momentum. Then a third knock.

"Boromir?" she asked again. He swallowed, and walked to the door. He placed his hand on the knob, and pulled it open, warily. 

"Mithrandir," he breathed, and stepped back. Tamar stood as an unassuming, unkempt old man was almost blown into the room by the storm. Boromir closed the door behind him, then took two steps back to stand between Tamar and the man, his eyes fixed on the arrival. The tall man brushed at his grey robe and his grey beard, then raised a pair of grey eyes and looked sharply at both Tamar and Boromir over a large hooked nose. The energy which had crackled around the room prior to his entry subsided, leaving in its wake a vague feeling of unease and goosebumps down Tamar's back. She shuddered.

"Well, Lord Boromir. Have you no welcome for me then?" the man asked quietly, stilled. Chulainn growled once, unenthusiastically, then half wagged his tail and ended up looking a little confused. Tamar looked at the man, and back at Boromir, who was pale and wide eyed, and looking wild and distant.

"You died," he uttered shortly. "I saw…. Then… you are here? But…"

The man pursed his lips and took a few steps closer to the fire. Boromir slid out of his way, and Tamar stepped aside to allow his to pass. The hairs on her neck were still prickling, and she felt a weight on her chest as he regarded her with a suddenly humorous glint in his eye.

"Young lady, might I trouble you for a warm drink? As you can see, the weather is not friendly to old bones."

Tamar swallowed convulsively as she willed herself to calm. "Tea?"

He nodded. "That would have been what I asked for." He returned his attention to the fire, rubbing his hands together. Boromir was silent. Tamar nudged Chulainn out of the way and crossed the room to the kitchen, her shoes eerily loud on the board floor. Her breath was coming in short bursts, although it was calming now. The man had taken her seat by the fire, and was thrusting his worn shoes toward the heat. Tamar reached for another blue mug, and some crushed cardamom. 

"Milk?" she asked, her voice cutting the atmosphere like razor blades. The man looked up, surprise across his features.

"In tea? Preposterous. Yet I thank you for your hospitality." He glanced at Boromir, who had not moved, then back at Tamar.

"So has he remembered yet?" he asked. Tamar frowned.

"Mhm?" she murmured, at a loss for any other words to add. Her hands were automatically going through the ritual of making tea. "Sorry?"

"Have you remembered it all?" the man repeated, addressing himself to Boromir. Boromir swallowed.

"I… I think so. I thought t'was but a nightmare. But your coming has prompted the nightmare to rise, and… I must see it for truth." His voice was hard and almost fearful, but the man seemed content, and nodded. Boromir returned to his seat, still moving warily, moving as if he were in pain. Tamar watched him closely, concerned at his discomfort. The rain slapped at the windows again, driven by a gust. The electric kettle whistled and clicked off. The man looked up.

"Fascinating," he murmured. Boromir cleared his throat.

"It… boils water, Mithrandir," he said, his voice a little rough. The man nodded, and watched as Tamar made a mug of tea.

"Why have you come?" Boromir asked suddenly, his eyes on the old man, his voice almost crisp and martial. The man did not look up at him.

"I would not have come if the need was not urgent. I have come to fetch you back, Boromir." His voice was gentle, almost sorrowful. "Your land has need of you once more." 


	6. Tales Choices

A/N: This one's a long one, but I wanted to get the story finished. Any suggestions are still welcome, as I haven't really drafted this properly. All dialogue in the dream sequence is taken from tFoTR, as is a few bits later on. If you recognise it, I didn't write it. I'm glad it's finally finished, but I'll miss Boromir… Watch out for the epilogue. Bye now.

 - T.

CHAPTER 6: TALES/CHOICES 

"Why have you come?" Boromir asked suddenly, his eyes on the old man, his voice almost crisp and martial. The man did not look up at him.

"I would not have come if the need was not urgent. I have come to fetch you back, Boromir." Gandalf's voice was gentle, almost sorrowful. "Your land has need of you once more."

His heart thudded dully in his chest, and his fingers tightened convulsively on the arms of his chair.

"Gondor can have no further need of one such as me."

One Week Earlier 

He could feel his hands clutching convulsively at the forest floor, fingers sifting reflexively through rotting leaves and soil, tiny insects and pine needles.

_He wept bitter tears and angry  tears, rage and shame and desire hot within his breast. What had he done? Why had he… He could feel a weight in his hand, a presence. Vision blurred, he brought it to his face, half expecting to see the glint of the Ring. Instead he saw a chip of stone, rough on one side, but cunningly and beautifully worked on the other, worn by the elements and stained by the earth in which it had been cradled, but still recognisable. Boromir sat up and looked at it dully. A fragment of the past, of his forefathers and theirs, in his palm, silent and quiescent. Cold. Lovely but dead and meaningless. He turned it over and over, all the while weeping for his own small death. He had been so wrong. Around him the forest was still, but for a small breeze that stirred the leaves around him and the hair that fell around his face. It was over._

_He stood, and passed a hand over his eyes, dashing away the tears. "What have I said?" he cried. "What have I done? Frodo! Frodo!"_

_Then he was back at the campsite, the others sitting around conversing. He felt invisible, as if he had found the Ring, and was wearing it, coiled around his finger like a cold worm. He did not look at the others, and they did not look up. They went on discussing trivialities as he went to each and stood before them, gesturing and waving._

_"I thought he would return to you! I do not know where he is!" he repeated to each, but he was ignored as if he were truly in possession of the Ring. Only one figure appeared to notice him, as he knelt before it, gasping in a sudden unimaginable pain as arows blossomed from his chest._

_"Is that all you have to say?" the Uruk Hai chief uttered through grotesquely grinning lips as he drew back his bow string._

_"Yes," Boromir answered, calmly awaiting death, "I will say no more yet."_

_He awoke only when Tamar's cool hand on his brow calmed his tossings and turnings and forced him to consciousness. He lay gasping as she knelt by his pallet and held his hand until he was still._

_"Who is Frodo?" she asked, her eyes on his face in the moonlit room. He could not look away, caught as he was by her silvered face in the gloom. The concern on her features calmed him more than her hand in his. He released her fingers and rolled over away from her._

_"Just a dream," he muttered, "Not really me at all. A madness took me… but it has passed."_

After she had left him, he lay and gazed at a square patch of moonlight on the floor from the window, and whispered "A madness took me, but it has passed."

Now, Gandalf sat before him, grey eyes firmly fixed on his face. 

"No futher need of one such as me," Boromir repeated. He felt Tamar come to stand behind him as she handed a steaming mug to the other man. He was grateful for her nearness, and edged back in his chair to be nearer. And farther from the grey man opposite. 

Gandalf sipped his tea and smiled appreciatively at Tamar over Boromir's head.

"You are wrong," he said. "There is need for none but you. You must return with me and take the throne."

Boromir's throat closed over, and the air around him seemed to hiss in his ears.

"Aragorn has… failed… then?" he asked with effort. Gandalf sat back, eyes glimmering for a moment.

"No. He is King in Gondor. The land was won back from Sauron's darkness at great cost, but it _was_ won back. The Ring was destroyed."

Tamar cleared her throat. Both men turned to look at her. She looked Gandalf direct in the eyes without flinching, and Boromir was suddenly very proud of her.

"There are a few things I would like to know," she said, her voice quavering a little. "Who you are, for one, and why you are in my house." She paused. "Also, what the hell you two are talking about."

Gandalf shot Boromir a dark look. "You have not told her then?"

Boromir spread his hands helplessly. "Some. I did not recall my… end… until quite recently, and even then was not willing to believe it as more than a dream." He hung his head, and was silent. 

Gandalf looked up at Tamar and raised his eyebrows. "Your friend knows me as Mithrandir among his people. I am called Gandalf the Grey most commonly.  And I am in your house on rather urgent business. The fate of all Middle Earth is at stake in this matter," he finished, looking directly at Boromir. "As to what we discuss, perhaps the entire tale is in order, as there will be much of which you are unaware, Lord Boromir." Gandalf sat back and sipped at his tea once more. Tamar glanced at Boromir's grim expression and settled herself beside Chulainn on the hearth rug, within reach of his chair. With another sip, Gandalf spoke.

"It began with a Ring…"

As the grey man spoke, Boromir watched her face especially. Her expression was bland, careless, but one which he was coming to recognise was a mask for deeper meaning. Occasionally she would look away, to rub Chulainn's scruffy ears, or glance up at the rain streaming down the windows as the sky outside began to clear a little. Once or twice she looked up at him, and smiled quickly and tightly before looking back at Gandalf. When Gandalf spoke of his fall in Moria, his voice caught slightly, but he continued. 

"You must understand," he said slowly, "much of this is now what has been related to me by those who were still present. Including your fate, sir, and what befell afterwards until I again rejoined the tale. In my understanding, you fled the mines to Lothlorien, there to take counsel with the Lady Galadriel…"

Boromir was siezed by a desire to stand, to walk, to move – 

"Maybe it was only a test and she thought to read our thoughts for her own good purpose… she was tempting us… It need not be said that I refused to listen. The Men of Minas Tirith are true to their word."

- and he rose abruptly and paced a few steps away while he listened. Tamar looked at him, but he did not return her stare. Gandalf continued to twist the blades he was driving deep into Boromir with every word, drawing closer to the moment. Then he paused, and looked askance at Boromir where he stood.

"Frodo has not made clear to me exactly what happened that day. Perhaps it is best told by you," Gandalf suggested. Boromir sighed and was silent for a moment.

"I attempted to take the Ring from Frodo. I don't know why I did it. All I wanted to do was to take the Ring and use it to command armies of Men the like have never been seen before to rout Mordor and defeat the Enemy and usher in a golden age… All I wanted to do was good… Perhaps it was true, that the Ring is evil. That it invaded my soul and found out my weaknesses…"

Tamar stirred. "And your strengths. Your wish was true enough," she said softly. Both men looked at her, but her gaze never left Boromir's face. "If all you have said is true, then you were as much a puppet of Fate as Frodo or Aragorn.Your character truly is your destiny, Boromir."

Gandalf made a harrumphing noise and pulled a small clay pipe from inside his voluminous sleeve. Tamar glanced over at his movement.

"Not inside please," she said automatically, then checked herself, and looked carefully at him to guage his reponse. It consisted of a raised eyebrow, a further harrumph and the disappearance of the pipe. Boromir actually felt a smile growing on his lips. He let it take form, lopsided and rueful, but amused. This woman was endlessly impressing and surprising him. She turned to him for his response and returned his smile when she saw it. 

"Pippin and Meriandoc told me what happened next," Gandalf said quickly, noting the look exchanged between the two. "I need not relate it, I think." Boromir shook his head in negative reply. Tamar's expression showed that she caught their meaning, and she nodded. Gandalf moved on, and told of what happened in the following months. Boromir regained his seat, and listened attentively, as did Tamar.  At one point she rose and returned with a loaf of bread and some cold meat and a bowl of apples which Boromir noted with a grin of appreciation. He felt lighter, almost dizzy. He had told her, actually said it to himself and to her, and she had not flinched away as he would have done. It was as if a light which had been snuffed was rekindled, and he was bathed in its glow. Gandalf continued to talk in tones sometimes low and careful, sometimes rushed and urgent, but he did not take all of it in. Instead he watched her face, and its myriad expressions. It was when Gandalf spoke of Aragorn's arrival in Gondor that he again became fully attentive.

"And my father?" he asked, sliding forward in his seat. "What did he say? And Faramir?"

"Your brother acquitted himself well, fighting bravely and taking grievous wounds in the battle. Aragorn healed his body, and I believe the Lady Eowyn of Rohan took care of the rest." The old man had a glint in his eye as he spoke. "I hear they are quite happy, often feuding and then reconciling." Then his face grew grim and sad. "Your father… did not survive. He chose to end his life, quite siezed by grief …a kind of madness took him at the end." 

Boromir felt ill, his stomach churning and his head pounding, his ears ringing, and an aching, metallic tang in his throat. He gasped for a breath, and rose quickly.

"My father took his own life? Impossible! He is the Steward of Gondor… he would not…never…" He allowed a sob to escape his lips, and leaned forward. Tamar remained still and watchful, and he was glad of it, although were he in private he would have wished for her comfort and counsel. His throat felt raw and his skin felt injured and exposed. The air around him seemed heavy and awkward.

"Yet Men live well and happily under Aragorn's rule. Gondor survives and begins to prosper once more," Gandalf said, leaning forward also, in his seat.

"I should have been there, to counsel him," Boromir managed to utter. "My father, my Steward… I should have never left him." Then he swallowed his grief and stood upright, dashing a single angry tear from his face. He regained his seat, and regarded Gandalf passively, the only indicator of his stress the rapid rise and fall of his chest. 

"If Men and Gondor live so happily and well now, what use could I have?" he asked, his voice almost bitter in his ears, and certainly bitter on his tongue. Gandalf tilted his head to one side, and pause before answering.

"You must return and take the throne as Aragorn's heir. It was always intended that you should do so, in some form. The Lady Undomiel remains childless and the land grieves for its King and its future. You are here. You are in the wrong place!"

"I am dead," Boromir hissed. "I am in the Afterlife. This is where I should be."

Gandalf shook his head. "No, this is not the Afterlife of Men. Although I am aware that there are others here, they too have been placed here for reasons unknown to me at this time." He sighed, his face growing harder, his tone more resolute. "You are not in the Afterlife. You are in another… another place.  You were…."

"Shifted?" Tamar suggested quietly. Gandalf nodded at her. 

"Yes. That seems appropriate enough."

"And you say that Boromir must return to this Gondor and take the throne? Isn't there already a King, this Aragorn fellow?" she asked. Boromir raised his face to Gandalf's, his expression interrogatory. Gandalf remained impassive.

"He must return and be born once more into the world." He paused. "And it must be a conscious choice from you, Boromir."

"But wouldn't that… just… happen?" Tamar asked, appearing at a loss. Boromir remained silent.

"Perhaps. It is not even for me to know these things, Lady," Gandalf replied, thoughtfully. "Nonetheless, as Boromir has ended up here, he must make the choice to depart."

The three were silent for a minute, Chulainn breaking the mood by groaning as he shifted in his sleep, his massive grey shoulder coming to rest against Tamar's side. Boromir gazed out of the window at a sky which had cleared before the dusk. 

"And if I do not return with you?" he asked. Gandalf looked ponderous.

"Then Gondor will have no heir, and when Elessar eventually passes, it will fall to the wiles of Men to decide upon a course of action. Men have great goodness and courage, but also malice and desire and greed and cowardice. Already angry covetous words have been spoken about Gondor's future. Aragorn's Dunedain blood courses strongly, and he will live for a good many years – but unlike his Lady, he is not among the immortals. He also fears for the future of his city, and his people," Gandalf finished, looking closely at Boromir. Then he rose and produced his pipe from his sleeve once more.

"I trust, Lady, that I may enjoy a pipe on the doorstep?" he asked, his courtesy edged with a tone that made Tamar's skin crawl. He crossed the room and opened the door. The sun was setting outside, the air cold but clear after the storm, and scented with earth smells. He seated himself on a small stool by the back door, and lit his pipe, which flared briefly in the gloom. Boromir sat still, feeling desperation rise and fall in his heart. Tamar came to him and perched for a moment on the arm of his chair, silent. He could not be near her, he could not inhale her scent or feel her warmth on his skin. He rose abruptly and went to the kitchen where he stood leaning against the bench, his face caught in lines of grief and anger, and his stomach tight.

"I have been here but three weeks. I have a lifetime's obligations there. I cannot…" he muttered, his throat tight. Tamar looked at him steadily.

"Why should you go?" she asked. "You said yourself that you were dead, and wished for a quiet life."

He was silent, before gazing away out of the window.

"When I sang that song, earlier, to you, you asked if I had ever sung it to a woman." He paused and swallowed convulsively. "The only woman in my thoughts when I sing that song is Gondor herself. She has been my mistress since I was a babe, my first duty and my first love." He stiffened but did not turn to face her.  A heady aroma of tobacco made him turn as Gandalf stood on the threshold and looked at him sternly.

"Then you know the choice that you must make," the older man said plainly. "We have not much time."

Tamar sprang from her seat and stood resolutely.

"Think about this, Boromir! Will you just leave, just like that? You have been an instrument of Fate before with the Ring. Will you allow yourself to be used again?" She shot an almost contemptuous look at Gandalf. "You have a chance to choose your own path now, to choose the quiet life you have wanted… here." She swallowed before she could add "with me".

The wind outside gusted through the door and he shivered in its grave chilled wake. He gave her a long look, taking in her stance and wounded expression. His heart contracted, and he turned away. "I cannot," he said shortly. He heard her sigh. He stood motionless for a long minute, darkly silhouetted against the gathering dusk. His frame was tense and his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of what they had both said. Then, slowly, he reached out and placed both hands on the draining board, clutching at the edge of the sink as if to hold himself in check.

"I am overtaken," he muttered, his voice breaking. Tamar's eyes pricked with mute, sympathetic tears. Gandalf stood impassive, watching, his face unreadable. Boromir hung his head.

"I died and still I wish for it again. I should be a ghost instead am haunted. I am besieged! Armies of ghosts approach on all sides, each unnamed soldier wearing the face of a brother or a father, or a king…

"I am overtaken, and utterly defeated. My walls are breached. The day is lost.  I cannot fight more than this… Even in death am I followed by all that I am and should have been. Gandalf, is there anywhere they cannot follow?" He looked up and out at the setting sun. Gandalf stirred.

"And so is it concluded," he stated flatly. "We shall depart."

Tamar moved forward and laid a careful hand on Boromir's where it rested on the sink. After a moment he looked at her. She reached up to put her other hand on his shoulder, and he leaned against her for a moment. Behind them Gandalf harrumphed and went outside to finish his pipe. 

"So you're going back?" she asked quietly. He nodded.

"I am. It cannot be avoided, and it must be me. I suppose I am still the Steward's son. It has ever been so." He turned to her, his face peaceful, all trace of anger replaced by resignation and a certain wistfulness.

"Tamar," he murmured. "I would stay with you, in a quiet life." 

She nodded. "I know." She leaned in and hugged him tightly, her forehead coming to rest upon his shoulder. After a moment, he returned her embrace and pressed his lips very briefly against the top of her head. His throat closed over with sadness and longing and another brief flare of anger before he pulled away. She nodded again and he could see the glassy reflection of tears in her eyes. He took her hand.

"As the blood of Numenor flows in me," he said quietly and forcefully, "so it flows for Gondor and for you. I am your man and would follow willingly of you but give the word." He pressed her hand to his lips. "I'll find a way to return to you when once more I am free of duty… I am not a man who has loved often, or well, but…. my heart is heavier still." He looked at her for a moment longer, taking in the shadowed planes of her face, then abruptly released her and left her.

She heard a few muttered words between Gandalf and Boromir, and then two sets of footsteps crunching away across the yard.

And then nothing but the sunset sounds of wind in the skeletal apple trees and a far off farm dog howling at the rising, faceless moon.


	7. EPILOGUES

EMMESIR 

When the queen of Men, the elven Lady Undomiel, finally carried a child to term and delivered him safely and well into the waiting hands of the midwife, it seemed as though the land heaved itself once in a sigh of relief before a cheer rose from the throats of Men. King Elessar closted himself with his the Lady and her son for two full days before appearing on the balcony of the palace and raising a tiny swaddled bundle to the wondering eyes of the city. 

"My son!" he proclaimed. The slim pale figure of his queen appeared behind him and they consulted for a brief moment. "Emmesir," he said finally, touching the babe's forehead with two fingers, before raising him once again to the waiting crowd. 

"Emmesir, heir to the throne of Gondor!"

After the lamented passing of his father, Emmesir ascended to the throne and ruled well. He married Maithee, a younger daughter of the Lord of the Southrons, and through that action forged a lasting peace with that race. During his rule, he became known as a man who remained committed to duty, and was unsurpassed in game and in battle. He was also known, however, for his interest in farming and in the improvement of the methods used to that end. Maithee did not survive the birth of their third daughter, Rabila, named in her mother's tongue to mean 'sorrow'. After grieving for some time, Emmesir remarried, taking as queen the Lady Anira of Gondor. Anira bore him one son, Eledainn, who later succeeded him as King.

TAMAR 

She missed him. More than she would admit, even to herself. For weeks after his departure, she felt uneasy, slightly ill, jumpy. She still thought of him, (even after she ahd cleaned up his pallet, folded his remaining clothes, and stowed them in a closet) – his scent, his singing, his fascination with kitchen appliances – each night before she fell asleep, and often when she awoke; but gradually that sickness was replaced by wistfulness, and at last by a small twinge and a question. Had she loved him? Did she love him still? She wasn't prepared to answer them just yet.

Instead, late one night when she could almost imagine the warmth of him standing behind her, she sat down in front of her computer and erased everything she had written as George Mears, and began again. As quickly as she could type, he recalled the rise and fall of his voice telling her stories and recollections, catching with grief or excitement. She recreated him, syllable by syllable, on the screen before her. She worked by candlight most nights to keep to the feel of his words. Under her fingers he was reshaped and recast as the hero he had always imagined himself to be.

When she could write no more, she took a break – a week, maybe two – and then she began editing.

FRANK 

Frank had been driving all day. His meagre collection of belongings was stacked – six boxes, one plant and one guitar – behind him in the Range Rover. On the radio, Elton John called it the Blues, and outside, rain ran off on a road that shone, gilded beneath the yellow of his single headlight. The other had been broken that morning, probably in the supermarket carpark where he had stopped for supplies. The motor chugged a little, and he swore softly and tapped the display irritably. The fuel guage showed him the bad news. The motor chugged again, and Elton John faded away. Then the car stopped. He coasted for a few metres before rolling to a crunching halt. He swore again, louder this time, and ran his fingers through short crisp red-brown hair. The rain on the roof and the hood of the Rover was the only noise beside the rhythm of his breathing. He sat for a moment, then fumbled in the glove box for a pocket torch. The town was only ten miles up, he thought. There should be some outlying properties along this road. He pulled on his parka, tugged the hood around his face, grabbed his wallet, his keys and the small torch, and slid out of the car into the rain.

He walked for what seemd an hour along the road, although he knew it had to be less than that. After a few minutes he was soaked through anyway, so he pushed his hood back and let the rain fall on his face. He hoped he wouldn't catch a chill and start his new posting by sneezing all over the desk Sargent. The air was bitterly cold – it was just before Halloween, and he thought he could feel the kind of chill that brought an early winter. Then again, it could just be that his underwear was wet through along with the rest of him. Ahead of him, a gravel driveway left the road and curved away to the right behind some trees. He paused and squinted and thought he could catch a glimpse of light through those trees. The torch creating a frail puddle of light ahead of him, he left the road for the slick gravel driveway. It led him to a cottage and curved away into a yard at its rear. He could see no lights at the front of the building, but lit windows cast rectangles of yellow light into the yard. As he slowed, he heard a thud from inside, and a low gruff bark, as if from a massively large dog. A woman's voice replied sharply, and the dog quietened. Encouraged, Frank stepped up to the back door and knocked. He heard another thud and exclamation from the dog, and footsteps. A stream of cold water trickled from the crown of his head down his broad forehead, around his nose, and pooled in his neatly trimmed beard. He shivered, and the door opened.

She was tall, and curved, with two blonde plaits on either side of her face. He mouth was hanging open in what seemed to be shock.

"Boromir?" she uttered softly. Frank stepped into the light. She took in his face, and blinked several times. 

"Sorry?" he replied, not understanding, wondering if she was speaking English. She shook her head.

"I'm sorry, you look like… someone else. Someone I knew a little while ago."

"Oh." He wiped a trickle away from his left eye. "I was wondering if I might use your phone. My car's run out of fuel on the road."

She nodded and stepped away from the door, nudging a massive Wolfhound to one side, her eyes never leaving his face.

"My name's Frank," he offered as he entered. "Frank Steward. I'm the new PC in Stockton."

Her eyes glittered for a moment, and she broke into a smile.

"Tamar. The phone's in the kitchen just beside you." She gestured to it. "If you like, I have some dry clothes that would probably fit you."


End file.
